


salt mines

by barnumxcarlyle, boneclaws



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bottom!Phineas, Dirty Talk, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, TGSFanFicFeb2019, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-20 13:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barnumxcarlyle/pseuds/barnumxcarlyle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneclaws/pseuds/boneclaws
Summary: 28 pieces (or not) of writing for The Other Side Discord server's FanFicFeb challenge. Various characters and pairings will be included, and each chapter is its own piece that stands alone unless otherwise stated. Prompts and any relevant pairings are indicated in chapter titles with any NSFW/trigger warnings in the author's notes. Tags and ratings may change as more pieces are published.





	1. first meeting ( phin/charity )

Phineas knew without a shadow of a doubt that love at first sight was real. The first time he saw Charity Hallett, eight years old and in a pretty pink dress and so unbelievably confident walking with seven textbooks on her head, he fell right in and never looked back. _This is it_ , he told himself then, coming forward with his father’s empty suitcase balanced on his head to join her. _This is love. It has to be._

But what was ‘first sight’, anyway? And how many times could you have it? Every time he entered the Hallett house throughout the years, every time Charity’s eyes met his and her whole face lit up, every time she laughed at his jokes— that same world-changing, life-flipping, soul-lifting feeling would return. Could you fall in love at first sight more than once? It certainly felt that way. Who said that ‘first’ had to happen just _once_ to begin with?

If every moment spent without her felt like an eternity, Phineas decided when he came to marry her, then every time he saw her again felt like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in an entire lifetime.

Whenever he turned away,

Whenever they turned the lights out,

Whenever she left the room,

Whenever he blinked,

the Charity that met him after was a different Charity from the one he saw before it. People changed, after all; people’s skin got drier, or their eyes got crinklier, or their hair got whiter or their fingernails longer. Charity was changing all the time. Charity was artwork, but living in a way that artwork never could—an ever-evolving masterpiece, growing grander and grander whenever Phineas got the chance to look at her.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he asked her once, “to fall in love at first sight?”

And Charity—perfect and timeless, strong and soft and her hand brushing over Phineas’ chest—murmured _yes_.

“I keep feeling it,” she told him. “And for some reason, it’s always with you.”

Her eyes met his. Her smile grew wider. Phineas, stunned and stupefied, could do nothing but smile back, falling and falling and never hitting the bottom of the pit.

There was a reason people couldn’t see 360-degrees around them. There was a reason things changed even when no-one was around to see them.

“I’m in love with everything you were, are, and will be,” Phineas whispered.

“Funny,” Charity said, catching his jaw with the curve of her palm, “I was going to say the same about you.”

They kissed and it was fireworks.

They kissed and Phineas closed his eyes.

And he would love whoever he saw when he opened them once more.


	2. Vertigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Vertigo  
> Pairing: Phin/Phillip.  
> Rating: T for implied (attempted) sexy times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was today years old when I discovered vertigo doesn't mean fear of heights. And so...

“Vertigo actually isn’t a fear of heights,” Phillip explains. “It’s a common misconception-”

 “Phillip, this isn’t _helping_!” He hisses through gritted teeth.

 Phineas meets Phillip’s gaze over his shoulder in the mirror, white knuckling the edge of the sink as the world spins in and out of focus around him. One moment he was bent at the waist, as much as the space would allow, his belt loosened and Phillip’s breath hot against his ear. Well on their way to joining the mile high club. The next, he felt a wave of dizziness crash over him, extinguishing the simmering heat in veins.

The mask slipped and his body betrayed him. And he’d done such a good job of deflecting every single one of Phillip’s concerns and questions up to this point. He was an performer through and through and he’d trained himself not to react when turbulence shook the plane like a leaf in a storm.

The truth caught up to him in the end. And the truth was he _hated_ flying.

“Yeah your face has turned kind of green.” Phillip’s hands are a comforting presence on his back. “If you need to be sick you’re in the right place at least.”

Phineas groans, slumping forwards, the mirror mercifully cool against his fevered brow. “Way to kill the mood.”

“The mood was already dead when you elbowed me in the face,” Phillip admits, gingerly massaging his jaw. Nothing about this was going to plan; any attempt to remove impeding clothing in such close quarters had only resulted in injury. Phineas eyes the darkening bruise with a sliver of guilt. Not the kind of mark he wanted to leave when he suggested Phillip join him in the bathroom.

“It’s not my fault this place wasn’t built to accommodate two grown men, Phillip, not even if one is as short as you are.” The joke comes out flat, a terrible attempt to defuse the tension.

Phillip laughs into the curve of his neck. “If you’re making fun of my height again, you must be feeling better.” Phillip’s lips brush the top of his spine, just beneath his collar. “I’m going to head back to my seat, give you some space.”

“We’re trapped inside a metal box thousands of feet above the ground,” Phineas points out, pleased that his voice shakes only a little. “There isn’t that much space to be had.”

Phillip squeezes Phineas’ side, pecking him on the cheek. “Remember to _breathe_. We’re almost there.”

An inelegant shuffle of limbs manoeuvres Phillip out the door.

Even alone in the cubicle, the walls slowly press in on him, stealing the air from his lungs each time the plane shudders, nausea rolling through him every time the engines make a noise that doesn’t sound right. His hands tremble as he splashes water on his face, hoping to calm his nerves. Phineas can’t quite meet his gaze in the mirror, all too aware he must look a state. Still, he takes a moment to catch his breath and plasters on that brilliant showman smile, pretending his knees aren’t knocking together as he exits the bathroom.

An air hostess waits just outside, a knowing smirk on her lips, clearly having seen Phillip exit a few minutes before. Phineas returns the smirk and winks. Vowing to leave his fears behind in the bathroom, he makes his way back to his seat with a skip in his step, whistling a jaunty tune.

Fake it til you make it.

 


	3. missing memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for death, fire, and all-around awfulness of the angsty variety. Some minor descriptions of gore.

Phineas kisses Charity _hello_ and tells her he missed her, and she tells him it sounds like Barnum humbug. Then the firetruck wails. The sounds go frantic. And someone yells, “It’s coming from the circus!”

So Phineas runs. He runs and he runs and he finds the crowd waiting, and everyone is there except Anne. Phillip—brave and stupid and in-love more than anything—rushes into the fire to save her. Phineas can say nothing to stop him.

But he can run in with him, he tells himself. He can save him. Bring him back.

Until a beam splits and the stands shatter and Phineas watches, through smoke and bright orange and the roar of fire around them, as Phillip disappears in rubble and screams all the while.

Phineas can’t breathe.

Everything goes black.

* * *

 

Phineas kisses Charity _hello_ and tells her he missed her, and she tells him it sounds like Barnum humbug. Then the firetruck wails. The sounds go frantic. And someone yells, “It’s coming from the circus!”

Phineas, stunned, stares as the firetruck rushes past him. He has the sense of mind to think something along the lines of _a dream?_ before he’s forced to run again.

The flames in the circus reach as high as he remembers. The crowd holds all the same people. He hears himself shout _where’s Anne_ , and like clockwork Phillip darts in through the open doors and into the fire.

Phineas goes after him. The beam is about to split. Phineas calls his name, screams it in something close to desperation, and as Phillip stops running to look at him, mere moments later the stands begin to fall apart. Phillip runs from the debris, coughing, and Phineas runs up to meet him.

The smoke is thick. Black. Phillip can’t see.

It burns everywhere they look, everywhere they feel.

Phillip runs into a fire.

Phineas hears him scream.

* * *

 

There are kisses. There is humbug. There is the truck and the noise and the yelling, and the crowd again and again and again. Anne is never there. Phillip always goes after her. Phineas, desperate, always chases _him_.

And every time, it’s scorching. Every time, Phineas’ eyes are filled with tears. His lungs ache and his skin burns, and Phillip searches and searches and never succeeds.

How many times has he seen him crushed?

How many times has he seen him burn?

Phineas catches him once and Phillip looks at him. Phineas grabs him by the arm, pulling him, and Phillip is taken to the perfect point for a metal pole from the ceiling to stab right through him and splash blood into Phineas’ shirt.

It’s been decades of this. Forevers of this.

If Phillip looks like he’s smiling, it’s because Phineas is losing his mind.

* * *

 

Sometimes Phineas wonders if Phillip knows. Sometimes he wonders if the split-second they spend looking at each other before he runs into the fire could ever be enough to tell Phillip why he shouldn’t go.

But Phillip is never not going to go.

And Phineas understands now what he must do.

* * *

 

Phineas kisses Charity _hello_ and tells her he missed her, and she tells him it sounds like Barnum humbug. Then the firetruck wails. The sounds go frantic. And someone yells, “It’s coming from the circus!”

So Phineas runs. He runs and he runs and he finds the crowd waiting, and everyone is there except Anne. Phineas doesn’t open his mouth. Phineas doesn’t talk to anyone. Phineas only runs straight into the building, right through the doors, and pretends he doesn’t hear Phillip screaming his name behind him.

“Anne!” Phineas calls into roaring flame. “Anne, _please_! Anne, if you’re there--!”

A beam splits. The ceiling begins to crumble.

Phineas lifts his head and watches, through smoke and bright orange and the roar of fire around them, as the rubble rushes towards him instead.

 _This is it_ , he tells himself, shutting his eyes. _This has to be the answer._

* * *

 

Phillip watches as the circus burns from the inside out. The firetruck wails. The sounds are frantic. And everywhere, people are whispering, talking, crying words like _are you all right?_

His heart is hollowed. His breathing labours. Tears fill his eyes and they won’t stop falling.

“I failed again, huh?” he says to no-one, just as Anne screams _W.D.!_ and runs towards them.

The sobbing won’t stop. Phillip can’t breathe.

(Sometimes he wonders if Phineas knows.)

But everything goes black.


	4. Tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated Gen.  
> Charity/Phillip within an established poly Phin/Charity/Phillip relationship.

 “A present for you, Phillip,” is how Charity greets him one morning, derailing his thoughts as he leans against the stands, the circus a flurry of activity around them. She slips a small, flat box into his hands.

“A present?” Phillip blinks at her in confusion. “But it’s not my birthday until next month.”

Charity smiles indulgently. “Open it anyway.”

The box is perfectly wrapped in brown paper tied with string. Phillip is hesitant to destroy this masterpiece and carefully picks at the sellotape. The present is made to look like an oversized cassette tape, but closer inspection reveals it to be a more modern invention. The packaging opens and a USB stick sits inside.

“I wanted to make you a good old fashioned mix tape, like Phin and I used to do when we were younger, but since no one owns cassette players anymore, I had to improvise. And a Spotify playlist just seems too impersonal to me.”

The track listing on the inside cover is in Charity’s tiny, neat handwriting. Twenty tracks, a range of genres, featuring some artists he’s familiar with, some he’s not.

“You made this? For me?” He croaks, staring at her in amazement.

“I hope you like it,” Charity says, soft and earnest, eyes sparkling with excitement. “They’re all songs that remind me of you or songs that I know are your favourites. So they’re my favourites now.”

Phillip, truly touched, can’t quite catch his breath for a moment.

Favourite songs are a deeply important and personal thing, especially from a family as musical as the Barnum’s. Phillip knows all of Phineas’ favourites, even if he has an ever growing list of at least thirty, and feels he knows the man better after listening to them all. Phillip, though still memorising all the little things that make Charity who she is, can tell now when she wants to skip a song and when she wants to turn the volume up in the car.

He clutches the tape to his chest, drawing Charity in with a hand upon her cheek to kiss her forehead. “Thank you, it’s perfect.”

“Helen wanted to put the baby shark song on there but sadly it didn’t make the cut.”

Phillip laughs. “I’m not at all sad to hear that.”

“And, uh,” Charity trails off. She tucks her hair behind an ear, looking uncharacteristically shy for a beat. “There’s a message if you read the highlighted words.”

He pieces together the words in neon yellow to form a sentence; _have dinner with me tonight._ Followed by a heart and a question mark drawn at the bottom.

“Are you asking me out through a mixtape?” A slow, endeared smile spreads across his face. After dating Phineas for a year, Phillip’s come to expect grand gestures from the master of grand gestures himself. His wife, it turns out, is more subtle in her approach but no less sweet and heartfelt. “God, you Barnum’s are the most extra people on the planet.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Charity laughs. She nudges her shoulder against his. “Is that a yes to dinner?”

Phillip takes her hand in his, squeezing gently. “Of course it’s a yes.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Charity kisses his cheek, pausing only to wipe off the lipstick mark before she swirls away into the chaos of the circus.

Across the ring, Phineas catches his gaze. Phillip feels his face colour, realising Phineas had watched the whole scene play out. Though deep in conversation with Lettie, he gives Phillip a wink and a thumbs up.

Phillip ducks his head, his smile bashful but pleased. Things were still tentative and new between him and Charity, and even in the knowledge they had Phineas’ full blessing, their unique and unconventional situation caught him off-guard sometimes. A camaraderie between two people who fell in love with the same man, never rivals, never hidden from one another, out of which a friendship slowly blossomed into something more.

Three people equally loved and committed to each other was probably the least surprising thing about their lives, especially when two out of three were in charge of running a circus.

It’s not long until Phillip is pulled into handling the next big crisis, something about _too many giraffes_. Throughout the day, he finds himself glancing at the clock with alarming frequency, his stomach a churning mess of butterflies and excitement. A distracted version of his usual self, wishing away the hours until he can go home and listen to the mixtape. Whilst getting ready for his date.

Their first official date. The first, hopefully, of many.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies if anyone ended up with the baby shark song in their heads as a result of this.


	5. fluff ( charles/phin )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggestive language ahead, but I mean. This _is_ Charles we're talking about.

“Your hair’s getting longer,” Phineas mused, fingers brushing the fringe up off of Charles’ forehead. Charles shut his eyes when Phineas ruffled through his hair, opening them only when his hand settled on the back of his head, and then he was shifting onto his side to face him.

Charles brought his own hand up to touch the hair curling over Phineas’ ear before tugging it. “You’re not exactly clean-cut yourself, fluffy.”

“At least I shave.”

“ _I_  shave.”

Phineas’ hand slid from the curve of Charles’ skull to thumb along the end of his chin where some dusting of hair was starting to grow. “Not enough, apparently,” he said. Charles pretended it didn’t tickle.

Instead, he tilted his chin up to show the stubble off appropriately. “You don’t _actually_  want me to shave.”

“Those’re fighting words, Charles,” Phineas shot back, but there was a definitive, deeper inhalation soon after, and Charles couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“They’re the truth,” he said smugly, foot kicking forward a fraction to nudge at Phineas’ belly (to feel the way he sucked his stomach in after, always so sensitive). “Remember the last time we had a day off? I didn’t shave then, either.”

Phineas’ tongue wet his lips. Charles pressed on.

“I mean, you _like_  when it tickles your back. And those little dips over your ass. And then your cheeks--”

“ _Charles_.” Phineas’ tone was sharp, but this close it was impossible not to notice the way his pupils dilated. The way his expression brightened with clear, obvious interest.

“--you like when the beard rubs ‘em pink, don’t you?”

“Oh my God.”

“So do you _want_  me to shave, Barnum?” Charles tilted his head into the pillow, hand caressing the side of Phineas’ jaw. “Or do you _actually_  want me to get down between your legs and--”

Phineas _whined_. “I get it! I get it. Oh my God--”

“That’s not an answer,” Charles pointed out.

Phineas tilted his head into Charles' palm, shoulders shaking as he laughed. “I want you to get down between my legs.”

Charles beamed. “I thought so.”

“But you still need a haircut.”

“Sweetheart,” Charles drawled, sitting up in bed and scooting down to be level with Phineas’ hip, “so do you.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Phineas huffed, feigning exasperation.

Charles only gave him a mischievous little grin in turn. “And you’re lucky my beard grows in fast.” _I love you too, old man._  “Now turn over and get your pants down.”


	6. "Are you sure?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phin/Phillip/Charity.  
> More poly? More poly.

Phillip wears two rings on the fourth finger of his left hand.

It was a point of contention and curiosity at the high society galas and events he frequented in the name of drumming up interest for investors. Phillip’s known lady socialites to introduce themselves for the sole purpose of staring at his hand when he kisses the back of theirs.

“Are you taken, Mr Carlyle?” The women asked with ever increasing lack of subtly, gaze drifting to his rings.

 _Yes, completely_ is the answer he longed to give.

“Such an impertinent question so early in the conversation, Miss…?”

Phineas might be a king of deception, but Phillip was a master of deflection. Still, he heard the whispers he’s not supposed to overhear as he worked the room.

_He’s not married, you know._

_Even a small, hush-hush wedding would still be on the register and it’s not. I’ve checked._

_So why does he wear those rings, then?_

Phillip turned away with a smirk. Let them wonder. Everyone loves a good mystery, after all; it’s practically how he made a living.

And yet no one ever dared to question why he stopped wearing the Carlyle signet ring on his little finger. They all believe they know _that_ story, something of a legend fed by exaggerated lies and gossip. A favourite in certain circles; the disowned heir who forgot his place and ran off to the circus. The cautionary tales they tell of his “fall from grace” range from melodramatic to the down right tragic.

In truth, Phillip traded his last name for another, one of scandal and infamy, one that had little worth in the eyes of high society. Though his relationship with his parents was never as bad as rumour would have it, he stepped out of the shadow of a family he’d outgrown and was welcomed with open arms and open hearts into the first place he’d ever really called a _home_.

He was a Barnum, in every way except the eyes of the law.

There _had_ been a wedding, spontaneous and special, invitation only for the nearest and dearest. The memory still warms Phillip's heart, even though it taken place on the most bitterly cold New York day in years. The snow outside was deep enough to swallow Charles whole until the only visible part of him was his hat. Shows were cancelled for the evening but the big top that day held enough energy and excitement to blow the roof off the place.

Their altar was the circus ring, stood in front of Lettie, the only person they’d ever choose to perform the ceremony. Caroline and Helen beamed as little flower girls in matching pink dresses, the troupe watched on from the stands. Phillip linked hands with Phineas and Charity, Phineas so breathtaking in his best tux and Charity radiantly beautiful in her dress; a less traditional gown of white, gold and red, handcrafted by her husband. He laughed when Phineas murmured a last-minute “are you sure?” for Phillip had never been more sure of anything in his life, and said his vows to both of them, unwavering and true.

It wasn't official, never on record. Three people couldn’t yet marry each other, after all. But in the eyes of their circus family, who roared and cheered and stomped so loudly after the I do’s when Phillip grabbed Phineas’ collar and pulled him down for a kiss, and when Charity brushed her pink-from-the-cold nose against Phillip’s, it was real and binding to them.

Two rings from both halves of his heart. For Phillip was lucky enough to find not one but two loves of his life.


	7. alternate universe ( phil/phin )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late. My laptop's busted and I got bitten by my dog, so I only have 7 working fingers and wrote this all on mobile.
> 
> Mentions of NSFW stuff to follow, but no actual smut.
> 
> Also, [here's a picture](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/505063636272676866/543710286582906881/image0.jpg) of Hugh Jackman at 28 years old.

There's a special hell for men like him. Phillip listens to the young upstart sing about keys and cages and he thinks to himself: _God, is there anything you won't break?_

Because Phineas Taylor Barnum, fresh from working on the American railroad, is full of hope. He's only 28 years old and he has a million dreams, and Phillip has some vague memory of what it's like to want something bad enough you'd give it all. It's a foggy memory, of course. Hazy. Likely it'd been something at the theatre, perhaps a comedy (Phillip loved those, ages ago, back when he believed in trying to break the mould), but these days he writes the same things and earns hundreds of thousands of dollars, and for a man nearing his fifties, he thinks that's the mark of resigned but successful cynicism.

Still, Barnum continues to sing. Barnum grins at him like a performer would. Barnum gets up on a table, curved hips and slender body and his leg work smoother than Phillip expected. Barnum says _you can do like you do, or you can do like me_.

And Phillip? _Jesus_.

Phillip plays with him until Barnum offers too much. Phillip plays until they're close enough Barnum's inexperience shines in the shake of his fingers when their hands connect.

Phillip doesn't look away from his gaze. "Looks like I've got myself a junior partner."

Barnum, cheeks pink and lips soft, fights back instantly with a need to correct: "What you've got is a boss, Mr. Carlyle. I'm afraid you're my overcompensated apprentice."

Phillip catches it-- _overcompensated_. And before he asks what that means, the kid is grinning and reaching into his pocket to slip some paper into his hand. There's an address written on it.

"You'll get it," Barnum tells him, "when you go.

"You're never too old for dreaming, Mr. Carlyle."

So when Barnum leaves, Phillip spends twenty minutes deliberating before following after the boy who smelled of peanuts anyway. Under the cover of darkness, Barnum's American Museum isn't so much of a scandal to enter, but Phillip walks in and everything is brilliantly lit: the spotlight is on the ring, and Barnum stands in the centre of it.

"Gorgeous, right?" He knows Barnum is talking about the painted walls and the hanging decorations and everything he's worked so hard on making. He knows the kid's trying to get his approval for a venture no-one's ever explored before.

Phillip looks at how Barnum's shirt stretches over his chest, how it rises and falls with his breathing.

"Gorgeous," he agrees.

Barnum's grin is positively infectious, and Phillip wants to kiss it. "Come on, Mr. Carlyle. Let's go meet the acts."

* * *

Phillip wants. It's a terrible thing. The days pass and he comes to work and P.T.-- _there's no need to call me Barnum, sir_ \-- is a mess, but he tries, and even if sometimes tunnel vision is an issue, he continues trying anyway.

P.T. is an emotional man, too. Happiness raises him like a wave and sadness crushes him like a disaster; Phillip's approval, he finds, is something he craves for, and it's so fucking hard not to do anything when one word from him can send P.T. to an incredible high or a steely low.

When Phillip starts introducing touch to the mix-- a hand on his shoulder, a soft ruffle to the hair, a little pat on the back-- P.T. falls for it like he falls for everything. One time Phillip catches him in the office, legs draped over the armrest of his chair as he catches his breath after a show, and cards his fingers through his hair with a 'good work today'. P.T. leans into it and sighs, telling Phillip not to move and keep going ( _feels nice, Mr. Carlyle_ ), then tilts his head back. His neck is exposed. His lashes flutter as a content smile touches soft lips.

Phillip thinks about spreading P.T.'s legs and lifting his hips and ramming him until he sobs his name.

Then he excuses himself and leaves, pretending his trousers haven't gotten tighter.

* * *

It's too much, he thinks, this attraction to a younger man. Phillip will do anything to make P.T. happy, and it frightens him because he's never felt this dedicated to anything. When he presents the invitation to visit the Queen of England, P.T.'s entire face lights up first with disbelief, and then with joy. He hugs him, albeit briefly, all strong arms and laughing mouth and innocent joy; Phillip worries because he doesn't just want to fuck him any more.

They spend the ship ride to England discussing acts and routines and how best to impress high society. Phillip also spends it nursing P.T. through swells of seasickness, and is grateful the sick distracts from how warm the boy's skin is in the throes of misery.

P.T. likes to lean against him after particularly bad spells. He bends to rest his head on Phillip's shoulder and clutches at his shirt, sweaty and tired and doing his best to stay optimistic.

Phillip remembers when he used to write romances. He remembers how idealistic he'd made them, how unfittingly and unrealistically pure each play was to get a woman to sleep with him every time he did a show.

With P.T. pale and sick and sweating, this is clearly no ideal.

But when he sighs a soft 'thank you for being here' into Phillip's shoulder, Phillip realises he's fallen in love with him anyway.

* * *

P.T. brings Jenny Lind home. P.T. gains the approval of high society. Phillip understands, the day that P.T. announces their nationwide tour, that making all the rich people like him outweighs _Phillip_ liking him. Phillip understands that P.T. has always wanted more and more and more, and now he's found something better than the approval of a man who stopped holding sway over New York the moment he joined the circus, anyway. Mostly he feels stupid thinking he held any influence over him, any sort of power; all of that is disproved when P.T. doesn't listen as Phillip tells him the risk of Jenny's tour outweighs the return. When P.T., for once, doesn't trust his advice, and they end up arguing before he storms off.

It doesn't stop him from missing him, though. In his forties he's still sullen and miserable like he's a teenager, frowning because P.T. isn't home (and P.T. _should_ be home), and everyone can tell. Phillip is antsy. Phillip doesn't smile. Phillip works because the circus is precious to his precious person, but he certainly isn't happy when he puts the fastenings to his ringmaster outfit on.

His frustration reaches a head the day some bigots try to pick a fight with W.D., spitting and snarling and insulting them all. Phillip ends up clocking the leader hard enough in the jaw it makes the rest of them retreat, and he yells something about staying away, about never coming back, about how none of them are _needed_ , his hair out of place and his eyes more frantic than they've ever been. W.D. has to hold him back before he does anything worse, arms hooked beneath Phillip's for a good few minutes as his breathing eases and the vein in his forehead fades, but in the end Phillip receives a 'thank you' for fighting for him.

"Mr. Barnum wouldn't have thrown that punch," W.D. mumbles softly as he checks his knuckles later (God, he hasn't punched anyone like that in twenty years).

Phillip's heart twists because he misses him all the same.

* * *

The papers come out saying the Jenny Lind tour is cancelled. Phillip wishes he could be happy about it, but a) now they've gone into severe debt; and more crushingly, b) P.T. is on the cover lip-locked with the Swedish nightingale herself. At first sight of the picture, Phillip wonders why in hell he held a torch for this young idiot for as long as he did, and immediately after that wonders why he hadn't tried harder to stop him from going in the first place.

But despite the fact his infatuation had been the reason he joined in the beginning, Phillip has become attached to the rest of the circus, anyway. Debt or not, Phillip has found himself attached to everyone, and he knows he's going to stay even if the circus may sink to the depths of bankruptcy. Though P.T. may be coming home, he's been gone too long; the circus has inexplicably become Phillip's and he's not sure what to do about that.

Still, when P.T. arrives at the train station, Phillip is standing there waiting, hands in the pockets of his coat. It surprises him that P.T. is alone-- where is Jenny Lind, then?-- but more than that, it surprises him that the moment P.T. sees him, he's dropping his bags and running forward to wrap his arms around him.

Phillip's face is buried in P.T.'s chest, and the kid's got his arms wrapped around his shoulders like he'll lose his footing with no-one to hold onto. P.T.'s lips brush the top of his head and he says 'I'm so glad you came' and 'I'm sorry' all at once.

It's the absolute strangest thing in the world, but everything fits into place when P.T. whispers the softest, "I missed you."

And damn it, Phillip should be cold. Phillip should be _cross_. Phillip should be telling him that he'd been reckless with his money and now they're in debt, and that means playing their cards closer to the chest than ever before.

"I should've listened to you," P.T. says.

Phillip's mouth closes before he can really get angry.

Instead, he looks up when P.T. pulls away, and then grips the side of his jaw with one hand to get him to catch his gaze. Phillip could say a million things, he knows, but the hugeness of P.T.'s eyes kills all the words Phillip's been gathering in his head since he left him. He hates how easy it is to be angry when P.T.'s gone, and then how hard it is to stay that way when he's looking right at him.

P.T. is still watching. Waiting. His hazel eyes are big and sweet and attentive and Phillip wants to pull his top hat down all the way to hide them away.

In the end, he settles on a grumbling, "Welcome home."

So P.T., the god damn _brat_ , smiles bright and happy and kisses him.

* * *

Phillip comes in to work early, but he always does. Anne and W.D. are early, too, and greet him from where they're hanging high above him. Phillip offers a half-smile and wonders when the bank is going to take this building away from them.

His back hurts a little. He brings a hand over to rub the sore spot.

Phillip tells everyone that there's going to be a meeting to discuss their plans for the future later that afternoon. He gets a lot of questions, most of them about P.T.; he assures them that P.T. will, in fact, be present, and that finally the kid's going to be here and stay.

P.T. doesn't turn up in the morning, but Phillip finds him exactly where he left him in his room: sprawled on his belly, cheek against the pillow, blanket crumpled at his feet, and drool coming out of his mouth. In the early afternoon sunlight, P.T.'s skin practically glows, and Phillip pretends he doesn't recognise the shapes of his own hands on the boy's shoulders, his wrists, his waist and hips and ass.

Instead, he sits at the edge of the bed and runs his fingers through P.T.'s hair. P.T. grunts and whines and cracks an eye open, then smiles when he sees Phillip there waiting for him.

P.T.'s legs spread just a bit as he purrs a soft 'morning', his bottom rising in the air. Phillip, ignoring the swell of heat in his belly, pinches his ear for misbehaving.

"We have a meeting in an hour," he says, pretending it isn't cute when P.T. whines and rubs his ear as if affronted. "So get dressed."

"Do I have to?" he groans.

"You wanted the meeting, P.T."

"Christ." P.T. pushes up on his palms, blowing away the hair that falls over his eyes. "I forgot."

Phillip chuckles, pushing the hair away for him. "I figured. I handled it."

"Really?" P.T. looks surprised for all of a moment, then giggles as he leans in to kiss Phillip on the mouth. "You're a lifesaver, Phillip."

 _And you're just a kid_ , Phillip thinks, but he keeps it to himself as P.T. slips off the bed and pads-- barefooted and naked and absolute temptation-- towards his wardrobe.

Kids make mistakes. It's inevitable. Phillip made more of them than he can count before he turned thirty, and now he's nearer to fifty than forty and he's still fucking up more than he can say.

But as he sits and watches P.T. get dressed, his arms crossed and his hand gripping his bicep to stave off the temptation to pull P.T.'s trousers back down as he fixes his suspenders, he decides this is one thing he's going to do all he can to get right.

Phineas Taylor Barnum has a million dreams, after all. And somewhere along the line, Phillip realises, they'd become his dreams, too.

_You're never too old to dream, Mr. Carlyle._

Who knew P.T. really _did_ have something to teach him?

P.T. finishes dressing up and Phillip rises to walk with him. His back hurts, but P.T. is limping a little, and that-- if nothing else-- makes him grin before he leans up to kiss the corner of P.T.'s jaw.


	8. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charity/Phin.  
> Implied poly.

Charity’s first thought as she enters the kitchen is that the room is filled with clouds of smoke. She inhales a mouthful of tiny, gritty powder and coughs, choking, the substance sticking to her eyelashes and skin. From within, she can hear her daughter’s voices, Caroline instructing in a school teacher way and Helen giggling.

The further Charity ventures into the kitchen, the more it turns into a disaster zone. Her vision clears and the panic in her chest eases to see that the smoke is in fact flour. The girls seem to be completely oblivious to the fact that they are covered head to toe in it, as is every available surface, rending the kitchen a messy winter wonderland. Egg shells crunch under Charity’s feet, the floor splattered the yokes and streaks of butter.

This kind of chaos isn’t that uncommon being married for P.T. Barnum and yet, for once, he doesn’t seem to be at the scene of the crime.

“Girls! What on earth are you doing?”

Caroline and Helen’s heads snap up from whatever concoction they’re mixing.

“Making a cake!”

“At five o’clock in the morning?” Charity stifles a yawn behind her hand. She cracks open a window with hopes of airing the room. Her next task is to heat the stove for coffee. “And what have we always said about you girls being in the kitchen?”

“But _mommy_!” Helen whines, stomping her foot. “You and daddy and Flip were asleep!”

“It’s important you wake one of us next time, okay? I’ve never seen the kitchen such a state before. You’re going to be cleaning this place up before any playtime this afternoon,” Charity says firmly, earning a chorus of groans.

“But it’s a _surprise_!”

“For who?”

Caroline’s little face lights up. “For the circus, of course!”

“You’re making a cake for the circus?”

“Daddy said it’s a year old today! Everyone else gets to have birthday cake and a birthday party so why can’t the circus?” Helen reasons, like this is the most rational thing to an eight year old.

“It’s a lovely idea, sweetie,” Charity smiles, kissing the top of Helen’s head. She peers into the mixing bowl and grimaces.“That, however, is not. I think we need to start over. And we need lots more ingredients if we’re making a cake for the whole circus. The circus is _huge_ , remember!” Charity throws her arms as wide as she can to demonstrate and the girls burst into giggles.

 

A little while later, before the rest of the house can wake, a big threatening note is pinned to the kitchen door;

Do not enter! Or else!

Special party business.

(yes that means you too, Phin.)

  
  


The masterpiece that kept Phineas and Phillip from the kitchen all day is finally revealed after that evening’s show. A huge party is thrown in honour of the anniversary, the circus tent transformed into a wall of chaos and celebration. Enough confetti and glitter is thrown to make sure that people will be finding the remnants in the most unusual places for months to come. There are toasts and tears, and the alcohol flows freely.

The showstopper, however, is the cake. Wheeled in under a cloth and revealed to rapturous applause by the three ladies who created it. A replica of the big top, the sloping sides held up with a toffee apple stick, large enough to feed the entire troupe and then some, iced in red and gold stripes, decorated with little painted elephants made from fondant.

Compliments come from everyone. Charity, Caroline and Helen are declared the queens of the circus. As if there was any doubt about this status.

“You could do this professionally, you know,” Phineas, mouth full with his third slice of cake, suggests. Charity, having spent the whole day covered in cake mix and icing sugar, declines a piece for herself and instead steals nibbles of Phineas’ slice. She’s relieved the sponge tastes as good as it looks.

“It was all Caroline and Helen’s idea.” Charity shrugs, her gaze drifting to her daughters. Helen has fallen asleep in Phillip's arms and he refuses to put her down for fear of waking her. Caroline is in her element, learning part of a dance routine from Anne. “I was just the architect that made it a reality.”

Phineas’ smile is lopsided from exhaustion and beer, leaning into her more heavily than he usually would. “That’s my Charity; the architect of dreams.”

“Well the girl’s dream big dreams. Like their father.”

He kisses her cheek, arm looping around her waist. “We couldn’t do it without you.”

The alcohol content in Phineas’ blood makes him an open book and Charity watches a mischievous spark appears in his eyes.

The mood shifts from serious to playful and Phineas dabs a dollop of frosting on the tip of her nose, grinning like he’s just pulled off the best school boy prank. Charity gasps, outraged, and grabs the back of his neck to hold him in place as she rubs their noses together in retaliation. Phineas just laughs, his laugh deepening as Charity’s hand slides down to his backside, giving a hearty pat and a whispered “I’ll get you for that later” before disappearing into the crowd.

No one can say whether the circus appreciated its birthday cake. But the people who called it home loved the special tribute.


	9. Fearing your fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter AU.  
> Phillip centric angst.  
> McGonagall is head teacher and Lupin is still the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. Because I say so.

At thirteen years old, Phillip had watched his greatest fear come to life.

His thirteenth year wasn’t kind to him but then, not many people can look back on that formative year without some kind of shame or embarrassment. Phillip’s voice wobbled and cracked, unable to settle between high or low. There was a prominent gap between his front teeth, his legs had grown too fast too soon and were too long for the rest of his body, and his hair was an unruly mop that refused to be tamed.

On the social front, being the only titled pureblood in Hufflepuff offered Phillip little chance of friendship; ironic from a house that prized fairness and kindness above all. Everyone knew of the Carlyle family; old money, prestigious, who thought themselves better and above the law a the way that seemed to be common in pureblood circles.

The fact that Phillip had been sorted into the _worst possible house_ in his parents eyes had brought shame upon the family like nothing else in their known history. _Carlyle’s are not Hufflepuffs!_ His father had spat at him via howler one morning in the great hall, a morning his peers would never let him forget. The children Phillip had grown up with and attended birthday parties together were all sorted into Slytherin, a fact they took great joy in lording over him.

Phillip would’ve given _anything_ to be in any other house and his fellow Hufflepuffs, uncertain over his sullen silence, wanted little to do with him.

He might’ve been the cleverest student in his year, but he had no friends in that Tuesday afternoon Defence Against the Dark Acts class.

They lined up, single file, in front of the shaking cabinet. One by one, the boggart turned into his classmate’s greatest fear, only for it to be transformed into something ridiculous by the counter curse.

Phillip waited at the very back of the line, gripping his wand so tightly between sweaty palms it might break. What was he afraid of? He racked his brains, venturing into the darkest, hidden parts of his mind that would soon be on display for everyone to see.

The boggart, predictably became a giant spider and a snake more than a few times, but no, he wasn’t afraid of those. The clown made him shudder and it took Hannah more than three attempts to transform it into a pile of banana skins.

The queue got shorter and a question in the back of Phillip’s head got louder.

_What if the thing you’re most afraid of is your father?_

Phillip was quick to dismiss it; he’d never been close to either of his parents, raised largely by nannies and governesses, as was the way in wealthy families. His relationship with his father had soured over the years due to Phillip’s unfailing need for approval, something that all the best grades and awards in the world never seemed to achieve. There’s always room for improvement was practically the family motto.

Yet once the idea had hatched in Phillip’s head, it was hard to ignore.

_But what if the boggart does takes his shape? What if that information gets back to him?_

Sweat broke out under Phillip’s hairline, his heartbeat hummingbird fast. He’d never wanted to skip a class so strongly in all his life. He felt sick to his stomach as the last classmate stepped aside in victory and Phillip finally stood face to face with the boggart.

The seconds the boggart took to read him, appearing a swirling ball of energy in the interim, were the longest of his life. The rest of the class faded away, the only thing he could hear was his pulse loud in his ears.

Phillip’s stomach dropped right out of him when the head teacher, Professor McGonagall, appeared before him, her pale face grave and troubled.

“There’s been a mistake, Mr Carlyle. I’m afraid I have no choice but to expel you. Hogwarts is no place for a squib. Quite how you’ve managed to get away with it all these years is beyond me. You were the model pupil.”

The icy band around his throat tightens, suffocating. “B-but I-I’m not-”

“And what will your poor parents say?” McGonagall continues, scandalised, hand over her heart. “They’ll never live the shame down. It’ll ruin them. A _squib_ for a son!”

Phillip can only look on, wide eyed and frozen in horror, as McGonagall snaps his wand in two with her bare hands, the crack of the wood like a gunshot in the silence.

“You’re a failure and you’ll leave my school immediately,” she orders, flat and cold, not a single spark of mercy in her narrowed eyes. McGonagall throws the shattered pieces of his wand to the floor. Phillip can’t think past the white noise in his head.

He’s a _failure_. Being top of his year and all the extra hours spent in the library won’t fix something that was broken inside him from birth.

“Phillip, it’s not real.” Professor Lupin’s voice, soft, sad, in his ear fractures the illusion. Dazed, the world feeling oddly dreamlike, he looks up at the professor, and then over at his classmates, who watch the scene with open curiosity.

His wand is a familiar, comforting weight in his hand. Perfectly intact. Phillip raises it, murmurs a shaky _riddikulus_ and flees the room.

It takes a long time for him to stop hearing professor McGonagall’s voice in his head telling him he’s a failure when he makes a mistake.

 


	10. Signs Of Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12: Signs of affection.  
> Can be read as Charity/Anne/Lettie/Deng Yan friendship or the early stages of something more.   
> Background Charity/Phin/Phil as always.

Charity hadn’t been expecting company that evening.

The hour was late enough that she could retire to bed and get a full eight hours in. The girls were sound asleep upstairs, the house quiet and achingly lonely with Phineas and Phillip away on a business trip. Every minute sound only amplified their absence.

Draped amongst piles of cushions on the sofa, half way through a chapter and more than halfway through a glass of wine, she was ripped from her pages by the crunch of gravel underfoot outside. She froze, straining her ears; it was just the crackling fire, surely? But the sound came again, unmistakable, accompanied by a low murmur of conversation.

Unease crept down her spine and settled like icy block in her stomach. Phineas and Phillip wouldn’t be home for another week. So who was walking up the driveway at this hour?

Whoever it was walked with haste, for the knock at the door came before Charity could prepare herself. Her heart thundered in her chest, head filled with thoughts of foul breathed, dead-behind-the-eyes protesters and their angry, spitting words. It wouldn’t be the first time they visited the house, parading their slogans of hate.

“Charity?” Anne’s familiar honied voice pushed around the door frame. Charity felt her heart skip and a breath released her tight chest. “It’s only us.”

She hurried to the door and unbolted it, finding Anne, Lettie and Deng Yan waiting on the threshold. The three ladies were wrapped in thick winter coats but shifted from foot to foot and shivered from the cold. She wondered what could’ve brought them all the way from the city on such a night.

“Well this is an unexpected surprise.”

Lettie quirked an eyebrow. “Not an unwelcome one, we hope?”

She couldn’t help but smile in response. “You’re never unwelcome, it’s lovely to see you all. Come in, you must be freezing!” Charity said, stepping aside to hurry them in. “If I had known you were coming I would’ve sent a carriage to the station to pick you up.”

The door closed behind them with an air of finality. Charity felt the first tendril of nerves as she watched the women shed their coats. It was the first time she’d hosted any of the circus folk on her own.

“We didn’t think it was far to walk, but we got a bit lost after the sun went down,” Anne explained sheepishly.

“Please, go and warm yourselves by the fire.” Charity gestured to the lounge, finding it easier to slip into her role as host. “I’ll make us some hot drinks-”

Deng Yan’s hand circled Charity’s wrist, halting her path. “Actually, that’s why we’re here. To take care of _you_.”

“Take care of me?” Charity echoed stupidly.

“We bumped into Helen the other day in town with your father. We asked after you and she said “her mommy was sad even if she pretended not to be.””

Charity inhaled softly, touching a hand to her mouth. She thought she’d done such a good job of hiding it, buried it beneath always keeping busy and keeping a smile on her face. But even her daughters could tell they were a crestfallen, incomplete little family unit with their Phin and their Flip missing.

“With our two leading men away, it doesn’t take a genius to work out why you’d be sad,” Lettie teased, a knowing smile on her lips.

“Long story short, we thought you could use the company.”

“We brought some of your favourites,” Deng Yan announced, holding up a hamper full of goodies; red wine, crackers and several wrapped packages that could only be some type of cheese.

“Oh and these are for you.” Anne pulled out a bouquet of red roses from behind her back. Her face was almost the same shade as the flowers as she leaned into kiss Charity’s cheek.

“Anne,” Charity breathed. The roses, twelve of them, were exquisite and perfect, the kind of perfection that would easily cost Anne at least a day’s wages. She laced their fingers together and brought Anne’s hand up to her lips. “Thank you. Truly.”

The gesture of them being there meant more than she could put into words. She’d never had a group of friends before. The girls at finishing school wanted little to do with her, save for teasing her about Phineas’ letters. Charity had been friendly with a few of Helen’s classmate’s mothers whilst they waited at the school gate but never close enough to invite them around for dinner.

Since its inception, the circus troupe had always been Phineas’ extended family. Charity was more than happy to watch from the sidelines and assist behind the scenes if they were running short. They always seemed happy to see her and were perfectly pleasant, but she could feel the divide between them, whether intentional or not. She was not one of them, she was Barnum’s wife.

That all changed with Phillip. With both men at the helm, the lines slowly blurred. Parties where everyone was invited were thrown in the house and Charity would find herself walking beneath that red and white striped tent almost every day in search of one or both of her lovers, or her errant daughters. It was only a few months ago she finally managed to convince everyone to call her by her Christian name.

Lettie smiled, bright and warm with affection. “It’s what you do for family.”

Later that night when she fell asleep on a sea of cushions in front of the fireplace, her head resting in Deng Yan’s lap, her arms around Anne and Lettie as they curled into her side, her heart was lighter than it had been for weeks.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone go comment on Lance's (boneclaws) stuff to motivate him to write.


End file.
